


What the Fire Gave Me

by Finfangillian



Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: M/M, Memory Loss, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Harry Dresden and Elaine Mallory, Probably more characters to be added later but I'll burn that bridge when I get to it, Psychological Trauma, Switch POV between Justin and Morgan, auditory hallucinations, mild dissociation and derealization
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:14:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23167576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Finfangillian/pseuds/Finfangillian
Summary: Justin DuMorne has never liked fire, but this fire has left him with a life far different than the one he had before it. Back in the midst of the White Council, under the Doom of Damocles, and in the care of a man he once loved… When he had begun his descent, when he had seemingly vanished from the face of the earth, he did not expect he would ever return to his old life. But now he has been forced to, and he may as well not fight trying to get better. Whatever that means for him, anyway.Donald Morgan is not handling this very well, either. Having the man he has spent years with, who up and vanished from his life, suddenly resurface in a worse state than when he left is not as easy as some people would have you think it is. He manages as best he can, but old habits are hard to get out of, and even harder to stay out of. His own demons make caring for somebody so utterly destroyed a little difficult, but he does what he’s always done. Push them down and ignore them. And it works… Until it doesn’t.
Relationships: Justin DuMorne/Donald Morgan
Kudos: 1





	What the Fire Gave Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Justin attempts to make sense of things after a fire that nearly claims his life. However, when you have no memory of the vast majority of your life, that can become a little difficult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-Fire Justin survives au! Pre-series, taking place when Harry is 16, right after the fire that (almost) killed DuMorne and Elaine. I'm using pretty much the same backstory for this as I am for The Warlock - both about Justin and Morgan and regarding Justin going from being a respectable Warden in his youth to an evil bastard as an adult. I'm very much a ho for both villains with backstories and redemption arcs so strap in I guess. 
> 
> Herschel (green eye dude) and Tanya Novik are a couple of OCs, the first of many that get to show up
> 
> TW for mention of vomit and severe burns in this chapter, no graphic description

Justin

I felt so strange all of a sudden. Like I was waking up from an exceptionally long nap that I had not had any intention of taking. 

But there was something else, too. There was pain. Horrible, excruciating pain. Burning, and my skin felt like it was boiling. And there was nothing else. There was only pain. I could not feel anything else. 

Maybe rage, too. But I couldn’t be sure. All I knew was pain, a terrible burning sensation that wouldn’t go away. I thought I tried to move, but again I could not be sure. Maybe my legs were not working, maybe they were injured. Whatever it was, they refused to carry me out of this Hell. This inferno. Whatever I was trapped in. Whatever was hurting me so terribly that I could not think or feel or fucking _breathe._

With that sensation of waking up, of opening my eyes for the first time in a long time, I felt like I had lost something. Like waking up had taken something from me, ripped it right out of my mind. 

I didn’t, at the time, wonder if it would ever come back. It seemed unimportant at the time, what with the horrible pain and all. It seemed so insignificant compared to… Whatever else was going on. Which I could not seem to remember, actually. I did not know where I was. I did not know what was happening, or why. I hardly knew my own name, at the time. 

I could not remember who I was when everything faded away. Or rather, everything abruptly vanished. I was nowhere.

I was nothing. 

I was no one. 

For gods know how long, Justin DuMorne ceased to exist. 

And when I awoke, my existence was still debatable. I was entirely out of it, listless, unfocused. I could barely see, sounds were distorted. I still felt as though my skin was boiling, except now, laying on what I thought was wet grass under the night sky with people I did not recognize fussing around me, I felt like it was trying to crawl off my body too. 

The ground beneath me was damp, cold. It felt nice against the back of my neck, and I felt like I could breathe for the first time in a while. 

Except breathing hurt, just like the rest of me. 

I did not recognize the man who knelt over me, the only thing I saw that made any sense to me was the grey cloak draped around his shoulders. The uniform of the Wardens, the cloak I used to wear. 

Did I ever actually wear the cloak, or did I just symbolically own one? I never thought they were very nice looking. I thought I would have tried to avoid wearing it when I could. 

His mouth moved, he was speaking to me, but I could not understand any of the words he was saying. I couldn’t really hear them, either. His voice sounded far away, like he was yelling at me from forty feet away with a pillow held over his face. 

I do not remember very much about his appearance, beyond the cloak. My vision was cloudy, I felt as though I was looking through fogged up spectacles. But I think I could see his eyes clearly, or… Clear enough to remember them. They were a deep, dark green and if you stared into them for long enough you would surely get lost in them. Not just with a Soulgaze, either. They were so unfathomably deep that I thought there may be an entire forest in them, one that if I were to enter I would surely never escape. 

The only word I clearly heard him say in a voice much less deep than his eyes was “Healer”. So I must have been hurt, which made sense, because I was in such horrible pain. It had reached the point, though, that I felt more numb than anything, and I wondered for a moment if I would ever be able to feel again. 

In an instant there were hands on me, I could feel those alright. Lifting me up, an arm around my waist, being half carried half dragged because the man with the green eyes could not lift me entirely. I think we were about the same height, perhaps he was shorter. 

And as soon as I was vertical everything again disappeared, and I was once again nowhere for gods know how long. 

The last thing I saw - Or, thought I saw, because it surely must have been a hallucination, was the face of my oldest friend. But he would not be there, because he must have been furious with me. This I knew, but I could not for the life of me remember why he would be angry. I just knew in my heart that he would be. Perhaps when I awoke next I would know, or someone would be kind enough to tell me. 

But somewhere within myself I did not feel I would be deserving of that kindness when I awoke. I suppose that was not really for me to judge, though. 

I would leave that up to the gods, or the Council. Whichever I came face to face with first. 

When next my eyes opened I did not recognize the room I was in, but I knew that I was somewhere completely different. Now I was inside, in… A bed? Evidently. And the sheets were the softest possible things I could ever imagine. The pillows were a close second, and I thought for a moment that if I closed my eyes they might swallow me. 

And I closed my eyes, and then the door opened. And someone was speaking to me, yet another voice I did not recognize, except it was a woman this time, and she had an accent I could not place. 

“Mr. DuMorne,” she said, “I must change your bandages.” 

Bandages? Hm. Now that I was attempting to pay attention to any sensations other than the softness of the sheets and the plushness of the pillows, I realized I was covered in bandages, and I still felt that burn. Though not as bad, now, much less bad. I no longer felt as though my skin was attempting to remove itself from my body, or my blood itself was boiling in my veins. 

“Mr. DuMorne? Are you awake?” She prodded, laying a hand on my arm. I reluctantly opened my eyes and looked at her, though my throat felt rather like sandpaper. She was quite tall, I thought probably almost as tall as my dear old friend. Who was not here, which made me a little sad. I had hoped, regardless of his surely justified anger that I still could not recall the reason for, he would be there when I awoke. It was always nice to wake up to him, and I missed it dearly. 

She was quite thin, and I could see some of her bones sticking out. I must have still been quite out of it, because they looked much sharper than I thought bones should. She had a mess of curly brown hair pinned up in a bun atop her head. Her skin was a pleasant bronze tone, and her eyes - staring back at me from behind a pair of half-circle silver spectacles - were a rich, lovely brown. She reminded me of a sculpture, all long pretty lines and sharp angles. For a brief, unfocused moment I thought that she may be a goddess. 

“Very good.” The clipboard in her hands was set aside and she produced a roll of gauze from seemingly thin air - Wizards can’t do that, can they? Could I do that? I couldn’t remember. It would be quite a feat if I could. 

The changing of my bandages was another thing I did not remember very well. At some point I remembered being vertical, sitting up - and immediately feeling like I was going to be sick. 

It seemed my healer recognized that, fortunately, because I would have thrown up on my blankets had she not been so quick to grab the waste bin beside my nightstand. Which I wretched over for what felt like an eternity. I felt like my very organs were trying to escape my body. 

After what was probably only a few minutes but what felt like agonizing years, the healer gently patted me on the back. “Are you done?” she asked. I nodded weakly in response. “Just a moment longer, then you can lay back down.” 

I didn’t look at my wounds when she removed the original bandages, nor did I watch as she wrapped the new ones around me. I did not particularly wish to see them, as I was sure they were hideous and disgusting. And I had just been sick, I did not wish to get sick a second time in a row. 

Fortunately I was blissfully loopy still, and even if I had looked I had doubts about how clearly I would see the burns. 

That’s what my body was covered in. 

Burns. 

And bandages, too. 

For some reason, it felt surreal. Like this body was not truly mine. Like the burns were not real, and maybe the bandages weren’t either. On top of all of that though my injuries felt disgusting. Perhaps that was because I knew what would happen as they healed - blistering was truly revolting. 

She glanced up at me, squinting over the tops of her spectacles. 

“I am going to ask you a few questions, Mr. DuMorne, can you try to answer them?” 

My throat hurt and the idea of speaking seemed like something I did not want to do, but perhaps they would just be yes or no questions. I could hope, I supposed. 

I nodded, she smiled a tight, measured smile that looked like something she would only show to patients who couldn’t tell it was fake. And at the time I couldn’t, so I suppose it worked. 

“What is your name?” she asked. Well, she had just said it. At least part of it. Actually, now that I thought about it, I had no idea what my middle name was. I was pretty sure that the first one started with a J, it just took me a moment to think of it. 

“DuMorne,” I mumbled, trying not to raise my voice any higher than I had to. “...Justin?” 

“Very good!” She smiled again, and this time it looked a little more genuine. She was still writing notes down at a surprising speed when she asked her next question. Or maybe it was only surprising because I did not quite remember what a normal writing speed was. 

“Next, when is your birthday?” All of these, I was pretty sure, were questions she already knew the answers to. 

“Um… November,” I murmured. She nodded slowly, eyeing me and waiting for me to continue. “November… 20th? Yes, um… 1980 - something?” 

“Close enough,” better than nothing, is what she meant. Maybe I wasn’t as much a lost cause as she initially thought. Then again, I was not aware she thought I was a lost cause at that point. I was aware of very little beyond what I was feeling myself, and even that was a little fuzzy. 

“Where were you born?” Europe, somewhere in there. Probably. England perhaps? Let’s go with that. 

I murmured the name of a country I was only half sure was right and at the last second tacked on “London,” as well, because it felt right. She nodded again, slowly, and looked back down at her papers. I noticed how she mumbled under her breath as she wrote, and I found it a little comforting. Even if I could not properly hear the words she was saying, the stream of commentary was something I could listen to. It was something that would distract me from listening to myself, which at the time was a hazardous thing to do. 

Not long later, the healer looked up from her clipboard, which she was scribbling upon with a blue pencil, at the door. Voices in the hall evidently grabbed her attention, and she mumbled as she left my room - to me, or to herself I was not sure. She disappeared through the dark wooden door and the first time I heard her name was when whoever stood on the other side greeted her. 

“Healer Novik,” a man’s voice, deep with a thick Russian accent, said. 

At some point between then and when the door opened next, I laid back down, albeit involuntarily. Instead of actually laying down I simply lost the ability to remain vertical any longer, and fell back into the pile of plush pillows stacked behind me. 

When I looked back at the door as it swung open, a man stood there. He was tall, and he had long pretty hair, and grey eyes that looked like they had hurricanes in them. He wore the grey cloak of the Wardens, on top of a black three piece suit. I did not like the cloaks very much, I did not think they were awfully fashionable, but somehow he made it look very nice. I was quite fond of it on him, but I think it was only him. 

Of course it was only him, who else would it be? 

He didn’t say anything as he entered the room, softly closing the door behind him. And he still remained quiet as he took a seat on the edge of my bed. He stared at me for a moment and looked like he didn’t know what to say. He opened his mouth to speak a couple of times but just closed it again. Like there were a million things he wanted to tell me but none of them would put themselves into words. 

When he finally spoke, from his tone, I thought he might cry. 

“Justin,” he croaked, his voice quiet and hoarse. I was glad he had said something. The silence had begun to unnerve me. Healer Novik - come to think of it, that name sort of sounded familiar. Did I know her? - talked a lot, it seemed. Even when she had not been speaking to me she would quietly mumble to herself as she scribbled away on her clipboard. The constant commentary was nice, it was something to focus on so I did not have to think about how I got here, or what happened, or where all of these gods-damned burns came from. 

All I remembered was a fire. I had no recollection of how it started, or even how I survived. I assumed, now that I had regained the ability to assume things, that Wardens had pulled me from the inferno, but I did not remember who or how or when. I think I must have inhaled a lot of smoke. 

“What do you remember of… Of what happened?” he asked. Well, very little, unfortunately. Or perhaps fortunately. I was not really sure if something that left me in such a sorry state was something I really wanted a vivid memory of. 

“Nothing,” I said, because it was easier than trying to explain that I remembered feelings more than I did the actual experience. I remembered that terrible twisted pain that I did not think I would ever be able to forget, and I remembered the fear and the anger, and I remembered the incredibly strange sensation of waking up. Then however I did not think any of that was important enough to warrant speaking. 

That answer seemed to shake him a little, and it took him a moment to ask his next question. 

“Do you remember Simon?” Simon, my mentor - That was probably the Russian man outside. Simon was Russian, that I knew, and he lived in Russia. In a big fantastic tower. 

“Yes,” because of course I remembered Simon, how could I possibly forget him? I had known Simon for most of my life. Since I was, what, 14? That seemed right. I had known him for a very, very long time. 

“Good,” he murmured. “And… Do you remember me?” There was a little fear in his eyes, like he didn’t think I’d know who he was. Which was absolutely absurd, because I could never, ever in a billion years forget Donald Morgan. I remembered him better than I remembered myself. I remembered details about him - his birthday, his favourite colour, I remembered what town he was from, I knew who trained him and how old he was when he had gotten his cloak because I was there when they gave it to him and I remembered how tightly he hugged me once it was around his shoulders. I could never, ever forget Donald Morgan. Even if I tried. 

“Of course I do,” I said like it was as obvious as two plus two equals four. Because it was, and I thought that it was important that he knew that. 

He smiled a very small, very sad looking smile and I wanted to hug him. Both because I wanted to make him feel better, and I wanted to thank him somehow for not being furious with me. I still… Wasn’t sure exactly why I was so sure he was angry at me, but I was, and I was so very afraid that he would not want anything to do with me once he had made sure I was not going to die.

“What is my name?” I couldn’t blame him for wanting to be sure I was telling the truth. 

“Donald Morgan,” I said. He didn’t have a middle name. 

His smile got a little less sad and he nodded. “Right,” he mumbled, and it was quiet enough I wasn’t sure if he was talking to himself or to me. 

“Justin,” he said, and I thought my name sounded very pretty when he said it. “Do you remember what the Doom of Damocles is?” 

Not even a little. But it sounded bad, and a little scary. Which was probably because it had ‘doom’ in the name. 

I shook my head and he frowned, which I hated to see. I wanted to make him smile again, because he looked so much nicer when he smiled. When he frowned he looked wary, exhausted, like he hadn’t slept well in a week. 

“It means that if you do something bad, then the Council will kill you immediately.” Ah, yes, now it was ringing some bells. Why was he bringing it up…?

“You are under it,” he continued. I thought I might throw up again. “And because of that, you need a Warden to keep an eye on you. To make sure you do not do anything bad.” Yes yes that was all well and good - I could not remember what the hell I had done to warrant this, but it must have been terrible. 

“I am going to do that,” he spoke slowly and softly as he explained, which I appreciated. “You will stay with me, and I will watch over you. Is that alright?” I could think of no one I would rather stay with. I nodded immediately and my neck had the audacity to start aching. 

He bit his lip for a moment before he kept talking - he would bite his lips a lot when he was nervous. Sometimes I thought it was sort of cute. “Does the name Harry Dresden sound familiar to you?” 

Sort of.. Though I could not place it. Perhaps he was another Warden, someone I once knew years ago. That did not seem right, though… Perhaps it would come to me later, if I kept thinking about it. That, or I would give myself a marvelous headache trying to remember. 

“A little,” I mumbled. “Who?” 

Donald gave a somber shake of his head. “I will explain it all later.” His tone was a little more sad now, a little more unhappy. Maybe he had hoped he wouldn’t have to explain whatever this was all about to me. I felt a little guilty for making him, despite the state of my memory was currently out of my control. 

“You will remain here for one more night,” he said, and I was grateful that the subject was changed. “And tomorrow, after Simon has had a chance to Look at you, I will take you home. Alright?” 

I wished that I could go home with him now, but I was a little excited to see Simon. I quite liked Simon. If I was remembering correctly, he was something of a father to me. 

I could not remember my real father. There was no face, no name, not even a faint whisper of his voice in the back of my mind. Come to think of it, I could not remember my mother either. I did not know if either of them were alive, I had no recollection of them other than they must have, at one point, existed. For some reason this struck me as profoundly sad, I wished desperately that I could picture their face at least, or even just recall the faint scent of my mother’s perfume, or my father’s tobacco. I supposed I must have loved them, if I was so upset over not remembering them. I was quite sure that if I had hated them I would not care very much if I could not recall them, actually, I was positive I’d be rather happy about forgetting them altogether if I had loathed them. 

Maybe Donald would remember something about them. I had known him for a very long time, perhaps he would be able to tell me things about them. I hoped he would

“Alright,” I said, even though I really did not want to wait. 

He put his hand on mine for a moment, and I thought I had never felt happier. It was comforting to have him close by, it was nice. I felt safe with him around, like nothing could ever even dream of hurting me when he was here. Because what on earth could square up to Donald Morgan and get through him in one piece? At the time I could not think of anything, though at the time I had also forgotten that the Fae existed. 

“Will you stay tonight?” I rasped. I did not want to be alone, and more than that, I wanted him to be close to me. If he was close by, he could protect me. Which at the time seemed very important, despite I was surely somewhere safe which I would later realize was a place I had once, and for many years called home. 

He hesitated, glanced at the arm-chair across the room, then nodded. “I will,” he said.

“Thank you.” 

I yawned, and as if on cue Healer Novik poked her head back into the room. For a moment I wondered if she’d been listening, but it occured to me she was probably too busy telling Simon about what all was wrong with me to eavesdrop. It seemed, from how much she was scribbling on her notes, there was a lot to tell. 

“Tired?” She asked, stepping properly into the room. I nodded. Her movements were fluid, precise, and everything she did looked like she’d done it a thousand times before. Which she probably had, honestly. If I had to guess her age I would place her somewhere around myself, so there was no doubt she had plenty of experience in her field. 

“Warden Morgan, I can have a cot brought in for you if you would like,” she offered, giving Donald a polite smile. He opened his mouth to reply, but it’s like she knew what he was going to say before he said it. “I know you have slept on much much worse, but that does not mean you should be uncomfortable if it can be prevented. I myself have slept in that chair, it leaves a nasty crick in the neck.” 

He stared at her for a moment before nodding. “Alright,” he murmured. “Sure, thank you.” 

Healer Novik nodded sharply and muttered to herself as she again vanished from the room.

Donald stood up and tugged my blankets up a little. “If you need me, please wake me,” he said as he unclasped his cloak and draped it over the chair. If it was anyone besides Donald I would have been skeptical about my ability to wake them, with my voice in the state it was. But he was him, and I knew he would wake up. I wouldn’t worry about that. 

I let my eyes slip close not long later, after Healer Novik had dragged a cot in and Donald had laid down to rest. It took me a little while to begin to drift off, but at long last I got there, and sleep slowly claimed me. Real, restful sleep this time - at least, I hoped - instead of the disorienting rest I got when I passed out after the fire. At least this time I had not been breathing in smoke. 

The last time I became aware of before I well and truly fell into the land of dreams was a voice. It sounded far away, but I had the sense that it was in truth very _very_ close to me. I heard it - like an echo in a strange cave.

 _“What a quaint little room,”_ it said. It sounded vile, terrible, like something straight from my worst nightmares. It sounded so fucking familiar, and I realized exactly who it belonged. _“I prefer things.. Much grander.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the Wake of Chaos Suggested Listening, in no particular order:
> 
> Fingers Crossed (Billie Eilish)
> 
> Knocking on Heaven's Door (Antony and the Johnsons)
> 
> Sorrow (Bad Religion, Acoustic version)
> 
> A Year Ago Today (Bear's Den)
> 
> Hostage (Billie Eilish)
> 
> Six Feet Under (Billie Eilish)
> 
> Rusted From the Rain (Billy Talent)
> 
> This Night (Black Lab)
> 
> If I were you (Claud)
> 
> The Cloud Atlas Sextet (Cloud Atlas)
> 
> Death is Only a Door (Cloud Atlas)
> 
> Okay (Elizabeth Gillies)
> 
> No Light (Florence and the Machine)
> 
> To Be With You (The Honey Trees)
> 
> Honeybee (The Head and the Heart)
> 
> Wake Your Soul (The Hope Arsenal)


End file.
